


Strong in the Broken Places

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Parenthood, Retirement, empty nest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 05:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11594067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: A stranger at their door brings unexpected news and makes John realise who holds their patchwork family together.





	Strong in the Broken Places

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to my friend badgerlady for the idea of a "patchwork family" (you can find her YA series of the same name on Amazon) and to Ernest Hemingway for the inspiration for the title of the story. 
> 
> "The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places." (Hemingway, “A Farewell to Arms”)

He’s in the town’s small library, scanning London headlines from twenty-five-years ago, when Sherlock, familiar with his unbuttoned Belstaff, long gait, and mop of curls, appears at the door. Prudence, the town’s elderly librarian, immediately intercepts him, and John keeps one eye on his task and one on Sherlock, amused and watchful. This will not end well. Sherlock has been banned from the library for life, though John suspects that the ban may die with Prudence herself, now well into her eighties.

He can’t hear the argument, but Prudence holds her ground, arms folded as she guards the turnstile. It’s a relic from the old school football stadium, retro-fitted for the library to help Miss Prudence Hatcher control inventory. Not coincidentally, it was installed soon after he and Sherlock moved here.

Now, Sherlock stands on tiptoes to search the room, and when he doesn’t see John immediately, he resorts to a tried and true tactic, one that earned him his final strike before the town’s first-ever lifetime ban was imposed.

“John!” he shouts. “John Watson – you’re needed at home immediately!”

John hauls himself to his feet. His hip protests – he’s barely into his sixties and he’s not about to have a hip replacement, nor will he show his hand to Sherlock and admit that he has a problem. But he gains his footing and starts toward the door, browser window left open to the scan of a front-page article on the Suicide Cabbie. His heart is thudding and his breath catches – Sherlock doesn’t _do_ this. Sherlock texts. And John has checked his mobile five or six times in the hour and a half he’s been here. He’s careful to keep it on silent – Prudence doesn’t even tolerate vibration.

His first thought is Rosie, off in Edinburgh at university, but he’d just spoken with her the night before and all was fine. She’s six months in already, and has settled well, and they’d just seen her over the holidays. But accidents happen, often in the blink of an eye, and he steps up his pace.

Sherlock sees him coming, and glares smugly at Prudence, who frowns at him even as she turns to John. She adores John. John respects the books, and the _quiet and contemplative_ atmosphere of the library she encourages ( _enforces_ , says Sherlock, and the atmosphere is _tomb-like_ ). John borrows only what he knows he can read during the borrowing period. He returns materials on time, if not early. He alerts her if the binding is loose, or if he finds a missing page or an underlined sentence. He makes a practice of checking out at least one book every month that hasn’t been checked out in a very long time just to make Prudence’s eyes water as she shares in the book’s happiness. And in return, the librarian treats him like her son, and his research for his new book is moving along swimmingly. 

Sherlock, after his smug glance at Prudence, now looks half-unglued. It’s not a good look on Sherlock, and it does nothing to calm John’s fears.

“I’m sorry, Prudence,” he says, keeping his voice library low. “There must be some sort of emergency. I’ll be back for – ”

“Not today,” Sherlock cuts in. “He won’t be back today. Come _on_ , John.”

“I’ll set everything aside for you, dear,” Prudence assures him. She pats John on the arm then levels a disapproving look at Sherlock over her reading glasses. “I’ll bookmark the page you were on. It’s no bother at all.”

“Yet it was a bother to allow me to renew a book I’d not finished even though it hadn’t been touched for fifteen years before I checked it out,” Sherlock notes. 

“May I remind you, Mr. Holmes,” snips Prudence, “that you dissolved most of the front cover with acid. And I’m still waiting for payment for the replacement.”

Prudence folds her arms again and glares as menacingly as a ninety-pound eighty-seven year old can. That Sherlock all but ignores her worries John, and he pulls John outside by the hand as John struggles to keep up. Sherlock has retained much of his energy and agility, while John’s body is rebelling against the abuse it suffered in his prime. Sherlock explains to John, as he hurries directly to their car, even though John has parked it behind the library as the small park was full and Sherlock couldn’t possibly have known this, that there is someone at the cottage waiting to see him. He is uncharacteristically nervous, but he won’t give any more explanation and insists they return at once to the cottage to deal with the matter. This sounds ominous to John, who asks after Rosie, so Sherlock assures him that Rosie is fine, that it has nothing at all to do with her, though really it does, in the way that all important things in life are connected. John has had a difficult time adjusting to her absence – she has been a fixture in their day to day lives, and they miss her keenly.

There is a car in the drive that isn’t one of Mycroft’s fleet – inexpensive and serviceable - and John wonders why Sherlock would leave a stranger in their home while he walked– or ran – into town to fetch John. There is an element of trust, then, between them. Not a stranger, then? Lestrade, perhaps. He feels a stab of dread in his gut – has someone died? Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson? No. Sherlock, lack of social graces notwithstanding, would not drag John home to hear that news from someone else.

A man is waiting in the sitting room, in John’s chair, holding a newspaper but only pretending to read it. He looks up as they enter, immediately stands. He studies John and there is wonder in his eye. He is excited, and nervous, perhaps a little afraid. He extends his hand, 

“Jack Hatcher, Mr. Watson. My mum was Sadie Hatcher.”

 _Sadie_.

There are people in your life that breeze through so quickly you’re apt to have a hard time even recalling their name. Sadie, brief as their acquaintance was, was not one of those people. He remembers her, and the look on his face tells Sherlock, and tells Jack, that John has not forgotten.

John remembers Sadie – remembers the two weeks they spent together while he was in London on leave after his first deployment more than thirty years ago. He remembers dancing with her at the club, and driving far out of London so they could make love under the stars. He remembers going to the coast and swimming in the ocean, kissing her salty face as they made love in the waves. And though Sherlock certainly knew before Jack told him, John doesn’t need anyone to tell him that this man of thirty or so who is standing before him now, nervous, hopeful, expectant, is his son.

He sits down, too quickly, in Sherlock’s chair, all breath gone from his body. Jack is taller than he is, and his hair is a bit darker. But in nearly every other aspect, he is his father. It’s like looking in a mirror through a time machine, and John knows – because he has finally learned to _see_ \- by Jack’s stance, and by the worn look about him, that this man has spent time in the army, and this man has suffered a recent loss.

“I didn’t know….” he manages. Sherlock, thrown into an unfamiliar and uncomfortable role, has backed into the kitchen and has switched on the kettle. “Your mother _was_? She’s…?”

The other man looks down at his hands. “She was killed – along with my stepfather and my wife. Six months ago. In the tube attack.”

“Oh, God,” John says, dropping his head into his hands. His body is numb, his heart racing. “Shit.”

It isn’t the most sensitive thing to say to a man who lost his entire family in a terrorist attack, but it sums up his feelings precisely. He and Sherlock had been in London that day, had left that very tube station less than twenty minutes before the explosion that killed more than two hundred people. And Sadie was there, just behind them, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Beautiful Sadie with the green eyes and the infectious laugh who made love with abandon and left him one morning without saying goodbye. 

Sadie, and her husband, and her son’s wife.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees with a wan smile. “I say that a lot too. Shit.”

It is quiet – too quiet – for several long moments, but the awkward silence is made better by Sherlock coming in from the kitchen, where he surely has been listening to every word between them, with two mugs of tea. 

“You shaved your moustache,” Sherlock says as he passes a mug to Jack. “Recently.” John glances at him fondly, knowing how Sherlock must be bursting with deductions, curious as to why _this_ one of all the things he has discerned is the one that spills out.

Jack passes a finger over his upper lip but doesn’t comment on Sherlock noticing, though he does give him a considered glance. “Yesterday. I thought – well, I thought I’d clean up a bit before I came here.” He laughs. “It’s not every day you meet your dad.”

Sherlock, who is undoubtedly cataloguing all the details about the man’s dress and deportment that spell out exactly who he is, and where he’s from, and what he’s been doing with his life to date, simply nods. Sherlock is trying – actually _trying_ \- to leave this moment for John, and John notices, and the realisation warms his heart. In the six months since Rosie left home, he’s been noticing more and more about Sherlock, amazed at all he hadn’t seen these past eighteen years with Rosie’s light deflecting the sun.

He clears his throat. “Jack,” he begins. He tries again when the name catches somewhere between throat and mouth. He is looking at Jack – at his son – at his eyes, which are kind, he thinks, and older than the rest of him. “Your mother – she never – she never told me. I didn’t know about you. I would have – I would have….”

What? What would he have done, had he known? Left the army? Married Sadie? Helped raise the child? 

“No. It’s fine. I know she didn’t tell you. She told me that – several years ago. She said that you were good and honourable, but she wasn’t in love with you, and she wasn’t ready to commit to anyone. And she said that too – that you would have wanted to do the right thing. Only it was the wrong thing and she knew it.” His gaze strays out the window for a moment, then he focuses those familiar eyes back on John again. “She said you weren’t the type to settle down in a cottage by the sea.”

John presses his lips together and looks down, feeling caught.

“In all fairness, this cottage represents a recent change in John’s life,” Sherlock stated. “We lived in a London flat until a year ago.” There is a matter-of-fact tone in his voice and John wonders why Sherlock doesn’t seem to miss 221B more than he does.

“Baker Street – yeah.” Jack knows about them, then. Once he had John’s name, he probably found out everything he wanted to know about him. But at least he doesn’t seem to have a problem with a father whose life partner is another man, another man with a certain fame about London at that. “I – well, look. I live in Edinburgh. I’m at university – graduate studies.”

“Naturally. Applied mathematics. And you’ve met our Rosie.” 

It is Sherlock who speaks, not John, though the deduction about Rosie is one that John could have made himself.

Jack smiles. His sad eyes brighten. “Yeah – just last week. I was helping out in her calculus study session and she accosted me afterward. She told me I look just exactly like her dad.”

“Accosted?” Sherlock is not even trying to hide his pleased smile.

Jack glances between them, certainly noticing the use of the possessive _our_.

“She showed me some photos of you, and I phoned my aunt – she knew a bit more about my father than I did. His first name – that he was in the army and on leave when mum met him.”

John finds himself staring at the man in his chair – at his son. His son. The word is as unfamiliar as the feeling settling over him, dropping low into his stomach. An unexpected weight, as if he’s just swallowed a stone, and has another one stuck in his throat.

“I have a one-year old daughter,” Jack suddenly blurts out. “Her name is Charlotte.” 

Sherlock has already deduced the child, of course. John knows it, and can hardly believe Sherlock is restraining himself, is not reading the man out loud – his job, his habits, his pets, how he sleeps with the baby monitor wedged against his cheek on the pillow. Jesus Christ – Sherlock is allowing this meeting to play out as naturally as possible. 

It must be killing him.

John wonders if he looks as shell-shocked as he feels. The stone in his belly has become a lead weight, and he has suddenly, unexpectedly, gone from being an empty-nester to being someone’s grandfather. And his son – his son has lost his wife. His son is left to raise a daughter alone. He knows what this feels like, knows with sharp clarity from the mercifully short time Rosie existed with one parent instead of two. He looks up at Jack, and his face is beginning to crumble, and Sherlock’s voice cuts through the roar in his head.

“Breathe, John,” says Sherlock. He’s standing behind John now, and he drops a hand on the back of his neck and rubs it with thumb and index finger, just exactly as John likes it. 

“Charlotte,” John says at last as Sherlock’s touch grounds him. He imagines that Rosie has already told John about her own mother. “That’s lovely.” He gives Jack a weak smile as he tries the name again. “Charlotte.”

Jack smiles back. His eyes are John’s eyes, and John, briefly, wonders what Sherlock is seeing. A younger version of the man he loves, perhaps. Less grey, more fit, looking ahead to a lifetime of possibilities instead of looking behind and writing an old man’s memoir. 

“I know this must be difficult for you – you didn’t know anything about me and suddenly you’re a grandfather. I just – well, I just wanted to meet you. Selfishly, I suppose. I wanted to call first and set something up, but Rosie told me you’re semi-retired, and that you’re here most of the time. She said it might be better to just show up.” He glances at Sherlock. “But you’re not half as threatening as I imagined you’d be from Rosie’s description, Mr. Holmes.”

The fingers on the back of John’s neck don’t break rhythm.

“Oh?” Sherlock says. “And just what, exactly, did our daughter have to say about me?”

 _Our_ daughter again. He says the word so casually, laying claim to one half of a being who has none of his DNA and half of his heart.

Jack, however, is unfazed.

“That you’d know all there is to know about me within three minutes of my appearance, and not to give you a head start by calling first,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes dance. John remembers Rosie hugging Sherlock in the doorway of her dorm room, telling him she’d be just fine as his arms tightened around her and he screwed his eyes shut, unable – unwilling – to take that final step to let her go. Sherlock had been the stoic one through all the college preparations, calm and level-headed through campus visits, applications, interviews, shopping and packing, while John walked from room to room, unable to settle, worry keeping him from sleep.

Jack fidgets in his chair. It takes some time to fall into a comfortable conversation, but eventually they do, and Sherlock refills their tea and brings in biscuits and Sherlock has _never_ done this before. And John learns that he quite likes Jack, and thinks his mother did a fine job raising him. Like John, he is left-handed. Like John, he is allergic to strawberries. He shares photos of Charlotte on his mobile, and tells them that Rosie and her roommate are minding her at his flat while he’s here.

“I’m going to quite like having a sister,” he says, and John has a twinge of jealousy – just a twinge – but Jack has nearly always had a father in his mother’s husband, but he’s never had a sister before at all.

They agree to meet in Edinburgh next month, all of them together with Rosie and Charlotte too, and John is on the porch, waving goodbye, ready to collapse with an exhaustion he can’t describe, when Jack stops at the car door.

“Do you want to do a DNA test?” he asks. “Just to be sure?”

John looks at the man, the man who has lost his parents, and his wife, who has no siblings, who is putting his life back together in Edinburgh, and has a ready answer.

“Not necessary,” he says. “I’m already sure.”

ooOOOOoo

There is an odd sort of awkward silence when they take their customary seats in the sitting room. John collapses into his chair and pulls the ottoman over with his foot. He props his feet up and blows out a disbelieving breath, staring at the ceiling.

John gestures idly at Sherlock, who is sitting in his own chair, feet pulled up on the chair cushion, chin resting on his clasped hands, which rest on his knees. That he can still get into that position, and with such ease, makes John feel every one of his sixty-two years. Sherlock no longer wears bespoke suits as he goes about his days here in Sussex. He still looks sharp in trousers or jeans and a more sturdy button-down, but he spends a lot of time outdoors now, and the sole dry cleaners in the village has limited hours and a chatty attendant who is prone to leaving love notes in his pockets.

Sherlock meets John’s gaze and the two stare at each other until John cracks a tired smile. Sherlock returns it, and it crinkles his eyes and John grins and they both begin to laugh.

“You’re a grandfather,” Sherlock says. “I certainly didn’t see that one coming.”

“Hey – if I’m one, then so are you,” John returns. “Grandpa Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I think you earned that one all on your own, Mr. Three-Continents Watson.”

It’s really not a barb, and John ignores the old moniker. “What’s mine is yours,” John reminds him, and he isn’t grinning or giggling anymore. He’s quite serious – and he reminds Sherlock of just what their partnership entails.

“You aren’t angry,” Sherlock states. “You should be angry that she didn’t tell you.”

“Would you be?” John asks.

Sherlock considers. “It depends on the circumstances, I suppose.”

“Should I be, then?” John persists.

“You missed the first thirty years of your son’s life. You went back to Afghanistan. You were shot – nearly killed.”

John looks back thirty years. Afghanistan and London. Sherlock and Baker Street. Mary. Rosie. What would he have had, what would he have done, had his life taken this detour? What _wouldn’t_ he have?

“You’ll hit dead ends in either direction,” Sherlock warns as John’s face settles into a contemplative expression. “It is what it is. I think what’s important is that he needs you now. You heard him – until he lost his wife and mother and step-father, he didn’t feel your absence. But with them gone, your very existence took on a much greater importance. You can speak his language, John. Not so many years ago, you were in his shoes.”

“I’d lost my wife,” John says, and his eyes meet Sherlock as he continues. “But I had you.” 

“Eventually,” Sherlock clarifies. “I was ….”

“You were perfect. Accommodating. A father to Rosie from day one. You gave us your _room_ and child-proofed the flat and you played her lullabies when she couldn’t sleep. Hell, Sherlock. You played _me_ lullabies when I couldn’t and it wasn’t like _you_ hadn’t gone through hell too.”

They hold the gaze a very long time. Words aren’t necessary anymore, and they seldom speak of Euros, or Mary, her presence, her loss. The time before John and Rosie moved back to Baker Street, before Sherlock’s bed became John’s as well, is just an interlude, time enough to change the reel on an old-fashioned film before starting on the greatest adventure of his life.

“Sentiment….” begins Sherlock, but John has hefted himself to his feet

“Sod sentiment.”

His hip protests and he grimaces, and he’s sure Sherlock notices this time, but he crosses to Sherlock’s chair in two easy steps and drops his knees down on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, straddling his thin frame easily. “You loved me quietly through the storm,” John says, and his voice catches, but the weight in his gut is gone. “You loved me through Mary and through Rosie and you’ll love me through this, too. And you do remember how much chaos a toddler can create, don’t you?”

“Applied mathematics, John,” says Sherlock, smiling into John’s kiss. “And Rosie in Forensic Sciences. That leaves Chemistry for Charlotte.”

“How about the violin? Someone else should play,” John adds, resting his head in the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Jack already does,” Sherlock answers. He’s noticed of course – callouses and stance and the way Jack’s gaze had rested on Sherlock’s violin case in the alcove as he glanced around the room.

“Of course he does,” John says. “Of course he does.”

ooOOOOoo

Rosie hugs Sherlock, then hugs John, lingering with her arms around his neck.

“You aren’t angry, Dad, are you?” she whispers.

“No,” he whispers back. “No, I’m pleased. You finally have that big brother you wanted.”

“She didn’t want a big brother. She wanted a pony,” Sherlock says. He has already scooped Charlotte from Jack’s arms, and has allowed her to pluck the keys from his hand and rattle them dangerously close to his face. She reaches forward with her free hand to touch the scar that starts above his eye and runs into his hairline. It is neither prominent nor ugly – just _visible_ on an otherwise unmarred face. It is the scar he gained when he dived into the Thames after Greg Lestrade had tumbled in, felled by a would-be murderer’s bullet. _Small price to pay_ , Sherlock had said. He’d insisted on John stitching him up instead of a plastic surgeon. _I want to remember._

Charlotte accepts a biscuit from her father, and playfully feeds it to Sherlock, pulling it away gleefully every time he attempts to bite down. While she is distracted with Sherlock, Jack shows him around the flat, then they sit down with a stack of photos he’s printed off for John, and John moves through his son’s childhood, school years, wedding and the arrival and first months of Charlotte’s life. Fifteen minutes and they are at the bottom of the pile, and John’s hands shake as he holds a family portrait – Jack and Alice, Charlotte cradled between them. 

“When Mary died,” he begins. He doesn’t say “When Mary was killed,” or “When Mary was murdered” or “When Mary sacrificed her life for Sherlock.” He glances at Rosie, who is watching him keenly. She seldom asked about her mother, and knows all the important things but nothing that really matters. “When Mary died, I moved back in with Sherlock. We weren’t – together – then. But then – then we were.” He doesn’t know why he has such trouble explaining this, given how long they’ve been together. “And it was easier. So much easier. And better – all the way around. I was a better father with someone there to love me.” He looks at Jack, who is studying him with what might be trepidation, and what definitely is surprise. “Look – I can’t tell you to go find someone. That has to be in your own time, if ever. But until you do, and even if you never do, we’ll be that for you – someone here to love you.”

Jack’s lips are pressed together and he is blinking – blinking back tears. “I’m not asking you to do that, John. I – well – ”

“Dad. If you don’t mind,” John says. He doesn’t tell him what to call Sherlock – they’ll have to sort that one out themselves.

“I don’t mind,” Jack says. He smiles through watery eyes. “Dad.”

He’s had a dad before, but John figures he’ll be a suitable replacement. 

Sherlock has appeared behind him, and he drops the coveted keys into John’s hands as he passes him the baby. Charlotte squeals in protest, but John stands – and Sherlock frowns as John corrects his balance with a wince – and balances the baby on his hip.

“Grandpa Sherlock is not to be trusted,” he tells Charlotte. “But he gives out far more biscuits than I do, and will sneak you into the morgue for an autopsy before you’re in school.”

Jack doesn’t appear at all as appalled at the idea as he should be, and Rosie laughs.

“I held a heart when I was six. I’ll never forget it.”

Charlotte is staring intently at John. She reaches out for his glasses and presses the bridge into his nose with a thumb. He pulls them off and blinks to focus. She is staring at him now, into his eyes, and a smile blooms across her face.

Who does Charlotte see in John’s face? An older version of the man who is the center of her world, perhaps. More grey, less fit, looking behind to a nostalgic past instead of looking forward to a promising future?

They take their leave much later – they’ve already missed one train. Rosie walks with them to the station, snuggled between them like always, as if six long months hadn’t passed since she left home. When she kisses them goodbye before heading back to her dorm, she places John’s left hand in Sherlock’s right, closing the open space where she had been. 

“They’re so very lucky to have you,” she says. 

But John feels like the lucky one as he and Sherlock board the train and get seated. He fades into sleep as Sherlock rattles on about an orthopaedic specialist in London who owes him a favour and who’ll sort out John’s hip, and it really wasn’t wise of John to hide something so important from him especially since he’d noticed weeks ago. And as the train speeds through the countryside, John dreams of making love beneath the stars, but it’s not green-eyed Sadie who moves beneath him, nor a woman’s arms that wrap around him. It’s Sherlock who fills his dreams now, Sherlock who recasts his memories and redefines family. DNA be damned - Sherlock is the glue that holds this patchwork family together.

Mary is a faded memory, tinged with regret. He was angry before her, unsettled with her, adrift without her.

It is Sherlock who saved him, who anchored him, Sherlock who put him back together when he’d fallen apart. Sherlock, broken and reforged himself, who makes him strong in all the broken places.


End file.
